Pour Some Sugar on Me
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Sherlock needs help with a case involving poison and vodka. Who's John to say no?
1. Chapter 1

"John, I need your help."

Never a good sign in 221B. When Sherlock needed help, it usually meant he needed help disposing of a body. And when he _asked_ for help, what he was really asking was for John to do all the work while Sherlock was "in the middle of a volatile experiment, John, and I know how you hate scorch marks on the table".

John groaned, putting the newspaper down as a lost cause. Only Sherlock would drag a man around London all afternoon and then deny him a spot of rest that evening. He turned to face his flatmate, immediately shocked by what the madman was holding.

A large bottle of vodka dangled from his hand while a few lemon wedges and the sugar bowl sat on the table behind him.

"It's for a case," Sherlock began, holding a hand up in a placating gesture.

"Naturally," John replied, standing and facing Sherlock with a suspicious expression. "Because normally cases require you to do body shots with your flatmate."

"Finally starting to observe, good for you John," Sherlock bandied as he turned around and placed the vodka on the table. John rolled his eyes and sat in his usual place at the table, folding his hands in front of him as he awaited Sherlock's explanation.

"I believe a man was poisoned indirectly via the vodka used to take body shots. He meant to poison whomever was taking the shots, but the poison took effect too quickly, only succeeding in placing the would-be killer in the hospital."

"Well it sounds like you've got it figured out, why do you need to experiment on me?" John demanded.

"I need to ascertain that something administered topically will take effect quickly. If I'm correct, you'll become very nauseous soon after I pour the vodka. Witnesses say the vodka was poured into the victim's navel before the sugar was placed or the lemon slice, giving the poison time to take effect," Sherlock said succinctly.

John frowned. "Just so we're clear, this is not actual poison you're putting on me, correct?" Sherlock gave him an exasperated look, but John was taking no chances. It would be just like Sherlock to accidentally poison them both.

"It's just a chemical to induce vomiting," Sherlock groaned, pouting slightly.

"If I do this, you've got to do something for me." Sherlock nodded his agreement and John grinned. "You've got to be polite to the next date I bring home. No deducing, insulting, or otherwise acting in a way that will result in me single again."

Sherlock scowled, obviously displeased with this deal, but finally acquiesced. John gave a brisk nod. "Good. Then how do you want me?" A moment later he realised how wrong that statement had come out, but it was too late to change it. Sherlock, thankfully, ignored the innuendo.

"On the table, shirt off, on your back." He gave the directions quickly in a clipped, professional voice, but the hand that he loaned a moment later to help John out of his shirt was anything but.

Once John was properly situated on the table, Sherlock mixed a portion of the vodka -a little over a shot's worth- with the chemical he'd mentioned. He then poured the vodka into John's bellybutton, making John's stomach twitch a bit. After a moment of hesitation, Sherlock leaned over John and very slowly licked first at one of John's nipples, then the other. Just as he reached for the sugar, John felt his stomach flip over, and he leaped up and ran for the sink, making it just in time to hurl his paltry dinner down the pipes.

The moment his stomach was purged, he felt infinitely better, and this feeling improved once he'd managed to rinse his mouth. "I'm going to brush my teeth, Sherlock, you clean up," he ordered sternly, retreating to the bathroom.

When he came back, however, he found everything exactly as it was, with a too-innocent Sherlock standing by. "I need a control, John," he said simply, indicating with a gesture that John should return to the tabletop. John debated arguing for a moment, but in the end decided it wasn't worth the argument. He certainly didn't agree because he wanted to feel the detective's tongue on his skin again. It was to avoid a fight. Completely.

If, when John first returned from Afghanistan, you had told him he'd wind up on a self-proclaimed sociopath's kitchen table about to let said sociopath do body shots off him, John would've laughed and then asked the bartender for a large cup of whatever you'd had too much of. Yet there he was, vodka once again in his navel and Sherlock looming over him.

A moment later, Sherlock's tongue licked a broad stripe from one of John's nipples to the other, and John tried to muffle the small whimper he let out when Sherlock paused to tease at the flesh a bit before pulling away.

Sherlock dusted the sugar over the trail he'd left, and then slid a lemon wedge between John's parted lips. John bit down on the rind slightly to keep quiet. He tried to pretend this wasn't affecting him, but even Anderson could've seen how painfully turned on John was by the entire experiment.

Things only got harder -pardon the pun- a moment later. Sherlock leaned over once more, licking up the sugar with tiny, teasing laps of his tongue before moving down John's torso and drinking the vodka. He then flew up to John's mouth and took the lemon carefully from John, their lips brushing slightly as he went, before biting down on the fruit sharply and then spitting the rind into the kitchen.

"Not terrible," Sherlock proclaimed with a small smirk. John rolled his eyes.

"You could at least do me the favour of getting me drunk _before_ making me puke next time," John groused.

Sherlock's eyes lit up in a dangerous way. "You could always do one off me," he offered casually, in the same tone he would use to inform John that he needed his phone retrieved from his pants pocket.

John blinked for a moment, and perhaps went temporarily mad, because he _meant_ to say "Hell no, Sherlock, I'm going to bed," but what _came out_was "Alright."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock grinned dangerously as he leapt onto the table. He peeled off his shirt, reveling in the way John's eyes tracked his every movement. As the cloth slid off, John unconsciously licked his lips, making Sherlock grin even wider. He sprawled languidly on the table, his arms stretched above his head deliberately to show himself off to the best advantage. John stepped closer, but seemed to check himself.

Sherlock frowned a bit. That was _not_ according to plan. John was supposed to be happy, excited even, not hesitant. "We haven't got all night, you know," Sherlock drawled, refusing to reveal his impatience. In reality, he wanted John's mouth on him _now_, but he was willing to delay that a bit until John realised he wanted it too.

Now John grinned ferally. "Actually," he said, walking to the side of table. "We have." But rather than drawing it out as Sherlock was rather afraid he would, John immediately descended upon him, licking a long stripe up Sherlock's neck, and it took all of Sherlock's sense of pride to keep him from keening at the sudden contact. Sugar was dusted over the wetness, and a lemon quickly gagged him.

John stood over him, gaze intense as he poured the vodka into Sherlock's navel. He didn't pause to ask permission per expectations, but rather swept down and licked the sugar off Sherlock's neck at a tortuously slow rate. Then, instead of lifting his lips and moving down for the vodka, John placed tiny nips and kisses down Sherlock's torso until he was able to lap up the alcohol. Then he suddenly broke from the steady pace and sprang to Sherlock's mouth, pressing their lips together around the lemon and holding for a moment longer than necessary before taking a bite and removing the fruit.

When John stood up, Sherlock knew all bets were off. One look at those blue eyes, pupils blown wide with want, and Sherlock, shamefully, lost control of himself. Instead of waiting for John to speak, to ask the question clearly on his mind, Sherlock broke from the plan, reached up, grabbed John by the base of the neck, and tugged him down until their lips met. Sherlock arched into the contact, rubbing their upper chests together without a hint of the embarrassment he usually felt at being so wanton.

John froze at first, surprise and confusion and perhaps a bit of anger keeping him still beneath Sherlock's lips, but Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before John started to overthink, and if that happened, the entire evening would be for naught. So he moaned, and ran his tongue along the seam of John's mouth, begging him to part his lips. If he could just show John that this was something they could have, John would forget his doubts and they could carry on.

Surprisingly, and oh how Sherlock loved to be surprised, John took abrupt control of the kiss, invading Sherlock's mouth and suckling his tongue until Sherlock was an absolute wreck. He pulled back and Sherlock whimpered, but he only went to nibble gently at Sherlock's bottom lip, giving it a few tugs before returning to Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock, for once, wasn't thinking. At least not at his usual scale. All he could manage was a string of _John oh God John _, something that would doubtlessly go to the army man's ego if he knew. It was all Sherlock could do to return John's ardent kisses, his arms pulling the soldier closer until they were pressed chest to chest with John nearly doubled over the table.

John pulled back with a gasp, but Sherlock simply moved his mouth down to the man's neck, relishing the taste and feel of velvety skin beneath his tongue. John moaned, and oh, Sherlock _definitely_ wanted to hear that sound again and again, to hear his strong soldier fall to pieces at his feet. He couldn't resist biting down at the junction of neck and shoulder, working a blossoming bruise onto the skin. John gasped again, and Sherlock ran his nails up John's sides in response, making them both hiss and press together for more.

"Shall we- take this to the bedroom?" John managed to pant. Sherlock pulled back and grinned brilliantly. Despite his abandoning the plan, John still wanted sex. He nodded eagerly.

In an exciting display of strength, John scooped him up, bringing their groins together for the first time. Sherlock, who was hard enough to cut diamonds, groaned at the growing hardness he discovered in John's trousers.

In spite of his request for a bed, John pressed Sherlock almost immediately against the wall in the hallway, devouring his mouth with nothing held back. Sherlock moaned again, feeling a distant prick of embarrassment for falling apart so quickly, and ground down on John in revenge.

"Bed," Sherlock ordered. "_Now._"

John obeyed, kicking open the door to Sherlock's room with one foot. Sherlock was deposited on the bed, on his back with legs splayed open while John stood over him once more. Sherlock went to work immediately, wriggling his trousers off and praying John would get the hint. He did, clever man, and stripped off his trousers before straddling Sherlock's thighs, refusing him pressure where he wanted it most.

Sherlock knew if he waited for John he might very well be waiting all night, so he surged up and captured John's mouth in a searing kiss. John leaned down, pressing Sherlock into the mattress, owning him completely with the press of his erection and the clever twists of his tongue.

John pressed kisses down his jaw and throat, eventually reaching his ear and tugging the lobe between his teeth. "I want you to fuck me," he whispered, and Sherlock shivered.

"_Fuck_, John," Sherlock gasped, and almost chuckled at how John's eyes sparked with surprise at the epithet. "It's about time you caught up." He reached for the lube he kept on the nightstand, hoping John would let him do the preparing. He desperately wanted to take the doctor apart, to make him quiver and shake with want before pressing into him and pounding him into the mattress.

While he had been preoccupied with the lube, John had slid out of his pants. Sherlock froze and studied the erection before him. John had been holding out on him. No wonder he carried himself with such pride for a small man; he had reason to be proud.

He continued to stare even as he removed his own boxers, but he lost his focus when their bare cocks brushed together. John _whimpered_, and Sherlock couldn't wait. He opened the bottle of lube one-handed, and rocked their hips together while he slicked three fingers on his right hand.

Sherlock traced the cool fingers down John's crack circling his entrance and playing with the rim a bit before dipping the pad of a single finger in. John pressed back immediately, taking Sherlock in to the knuckle before pulling back again.

"More," John demanded, and Sherlock obliged, pressing another finger in. John began to fuck himself in earnest, making the most delicious noises when he drove himself back on Sherlock's fingers. When the third finger was in, John finally hit his prostate, and the soldier cried out, clamping beautifully around Sherlock's fingers. Sherlock nearly came right then, imagining his desperate cock wrapped in that hot vise.

"Now, Sherlock," John ordered, "Fuck me." And who was Sherlock to refuse him? He removed his fingers, delighting in the small mewl John released at the sudden emptiness. John insisted on coating Sherlock's erection himself, smoothing cool lube over the hot flesh. Sherlock was so turned on it was painful, and it only got more intense when John sank down on his length in one smooth stroke.

The heat was indescribable, so wet and warm and _tight_, sucking Sherlock in greedily until he couldn't bear it any longer. He flipped them smoothly so he was never unseated from John, pressing his tiny terror into the mattress and slamming his hips into the soldier. John cried out, digging sharp finger nails into Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock answered with another sharp hip thrust and a nip to John's gorgeous scar.

Sherlock kept the rhythm fast and hard, pounding deep into John on each thrust, hitting his prostate every time until all John could do was shout and cling to Sherlock. John was falling apart, and he was magnificent.

"So close," John managed, and Sherlock only groaned, pounding in harder and faster as he chased that high. A few well-placed thrusts and one sharp bite to the shoulder later John was coming untouched between them, hot ropes of come shooting over their chests.

"Come on," John grunted through the aftershocks. "You now." And he clamped down, making the channel Sherlock was pounding into impossibly tighter and before he knew it Sherlock was coming so hard his entire world went white.

When it was over, Sherlock collapsed atop John, not caring about the sticky mess between them. John leaned down a bit and kissed him gently.

"Was there really a body shot case?" he asked quietly.

Sherlock smiled. Always surprising, his John.

"No," he admitted, "there wasn't."


End file.
